


miles to go

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Episode: s09e07 Bad Boys, Gen, Young Dean Winchester, prequel to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:41:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3901795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could grow up, he thinks. He could grow out of his father’s crusade and make a life for himself. he could become a mechanic, something he knows he’s good at, and make a decent living off of repairing other people’s cars and helping them out. His hands, though toughened with callouses, were made for finer work. Like holding a pencil, or painting a picture, or delicately replacing fragile machine pieces that require a steady hand. His hands, these hands, right here in his lap, were crafted with a craftsman in mind.</p><p>He stares out across the fields of the farm, and wonders idly how much land costs. Sure, he’d have to work for it, but he could get his own plot of land if he put his mind to it. He could make a little garden, like Sonny’s been teaching him, and learn how to cook his own meals and bring some over to the neighbors. he’d make pies, and take some over to where Sammy’s living next door-</p><p>Dean inhales deeply, the crisp night air filling his lungs. He flattens out his hands, running over the pale outline of a scar with a worn fingertip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	miles to go

Dean stares into the lines of his palms, as if trying to read the stardust his teacher claims he’s made from.

He could do it, you know. Run away from Sonny’s, hustle up some money and hitch his way up to Sioux Falls. He’s capable, has toughened hands and sharp wits. He was trained well, after all, taught what to do in a tight spot.

He loosely clenches his fist, hiding the marks in his hands.

He could do something great, you know. He’s a great wrestler, tactical and quick about himself. He’s intelligent, earns high grades when he applies himself, even beginning to learn some chords on Robin’s guitar.

He could grow up, he thinks. He could grow out of his father’s crusade and make a life for himself. he could become a mechanic, something he knows he’s good at, and make a decent living off of repairing other people’s cars and helping them out. His hands, though toughened with callouses, were made for finer work. Like holding a pencil, or painting a picture, or delicately replacing fragile machine pieces that require a steady hand. His hands, these hands, right here in his lap, were crafted with a craftsman in mind.

He stares out across the fields of the farm, and wonders idly how much land costs. Sure, he’d have to work for it, but he could get his own plot of land if he put his mind to it. He could make a little garden, like Sonny’s been teaching him, and learn how to cook his own meals and bring some over to the neighbors. he’d make pies, and take some over to where Sammy’s living next door-

Dean inhales deeply, the crisp night air filling his lungs. he flattens out his hands, running over the pale outline of a scar with a worn fingertip.

He looks up to the sky, trying to see behind the clouds that blanket the stars. The wind whips past where he’s sitting on the porch, and Dean wishes, for a brief instant, that he could be freed from all of his responsibilities.

He allows himself a moment of selfishness, and wishes he could to have a childhood.

He shakes his head, and retreats back inside the house. As he lingers in the fuzzy state between sleep and consciousness, four lines of a poem he read in class a week before come to him:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go, before I sleep.


End file.
